Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [64]
A nervous shiver danced up her spine as she lifted the garment for a closer inspection. She’d sewn men’s shirts for the last month, but this was different. A gentleman who was not her husband, a gentleman she’d never even met, had worn this fabric against his skin. Numerous times, apparently, for cambric lost its sheen after several launderings.
Judging by the length of the sleeves and breadth of the shoulder seams, Lord Buchanan was indeed tall. She would need to look up to meet his gaze and would not easily see round him. A pleasant scent, more like soap than sweat, clung to the fabric, and the clean neckline hinted at a man who bathed often.
Enough, Bess. She blushed, lowering the shirt to her lap. Her task was to mend his clothes, not assess them. She quickly found a lengthy gap along the side seam, easily repaired. After threading her needle, she went to work and finished the last stitch a half hour later. She pressed on to the next item, a waistcoat with three missing buttons, requiring an entirely new set, which she retrieved from her basket. A rather new linen apron needed only a few stitches to reattach the waistband, and a second shirt of a lesser quality was quickly hemmed.
As the morning progressed, she draped each finished piece over the chair beside her, stopping occasionally to poke the fire, stretch her limbs, or step into the hall to listen for voices. She imagined Mrs. Pringle and Roberts in their respective offices above her, interviewing the many candidates. Would Molly Easton find herself a parlormaid before the day ended?
When the sun was high overhead, young Sally reappeared with a dinner tray. “I thocht ye might be peckish by noo,” she said, placing the wooden tray on a side table. “Cauld mutton, het tea, and Mrs. Tudhope’s shortbread.”
“They all sound delicious,” Elisabeth told her, grateful not only for the food but also for the company. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sally, how long have you worked at Bell Hill?”
“A fortnight,” the lass said proudly. “My mither is head laundress. We were the first in Selkirk to be hired. Mrs. Pringle and the ithers came from London toun.”
“What about Lord Buchanan?” Elisabeth asked, trying not to sound too curious. “Is he a worthy master?”
Sally smiled. “I’ve niver met a kinder man. He’s auld, ye ken. Nigh to forty. And not verra handsome. But he is guid.”
Elisabeth nodded, adding the details to her store of knowledge concerning Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. She could almost picture him now and would certainly recognize him if he walked through the door, which he might at any time. She thanked Sally, dined with haste, then returned to her sewing, the shadows outside her window lengthening with each passing hour.
When she reached the last garment, a sturdy wool waistcoat, Elisabeth counted the buttons and studied the seams, finding nothing wrong. Had the garment landed in the mending basket by mistake? Running her fingers over the fabric in the waning light, she felt more than saw the problem: a slight tear in the fabric, as if a blade had poked through the wool, severing the weave.
Elisabeth frowned, knowing there was little hope of saving the waistcoat. Cotton and silk thread would never do a proper job of it. She inched closer to the candle-stool, examining the spun wool in the flickering light. If her father were here, he would know what might be done. Think, Bess. How would a weaver repair this?
Using a flatiron heated by the fire, Elisabeth pressed the damaged area, then picked apart a section of the hem that would not show, carefully removing a few strands of wool. She inserted the strands along the tear, making certain the colors were a perfect match, then rewove the warp and then the weft, using only her fingers and a blunt needle. At last she snipped away the trailing ends, then pressed the fabric once more.
Elisabeth held up the waistcoat, pride welling inside her.